Welcome to another chapter! Just a quick thank you to the two guests who've reviewed since last chapter. I'm chuffed that you're enjoying this fic and the banter. It's a hoot to write and I'm glad it's a hoot to read too 😃
Chapter Thirteen: The Emotional Ascent
Water cascaded from the ornate gold shower head, tracing rivulets down Marik's body. To him, the shower was not merely a cleansing ritual; it was a private oasis, a place where he could analyse, dissect, and wash away his thoughts. Yet, beneath the hot spray, tension clung to him, a residue from last night's events.
After their shared kiss and A'isha's attempted escape, Marik had taken an unexpected course. Foregoing handcuffs in a shared bed, he had instead barricaded the bedroom door with a sofa and claimed it as his bed, offering A'isha both physical and emotional space without risking another escape attempt as he slept. As he stood beneath the shower's hot cascade, a smile unbidden crept onto his lips; A'isha had of course cloaked her surprise with a sarcastic quip.
The Millennium Rod glinted on the bathroom vanity, and another recent memory intruded: A'isha, her eyes a whirlpool of conflict, her hand quivering around the artefact. In the face of her deception, his stomach had clenched and he had gripped his knees with trembling fingers, quashing a surge of anger. A lesser man would have shattered the fragile trust between them, but not Marik. He had recognised her desperation, the sight flooding forth a disorientating dose of empathy. But he had swiftly regained his footing, navigating the situation by challenging her decision and playing off her emotions. It had been a calculated risk, one emerging from an uncharacteristic lapse in his otherwise impeccable judgement—a lapse A'isha had manoeuvred so skilfully that, despite his frustration, he couldn't help but be impressed.
Mechanically, he lathered his hair, his mind diving deeper. A'isha had professed that she too felt the pull between them; that it was confusing, exciting, real. Her words had been wrapped in deception, but did a kernel of truth lay within? Perhaps the realisation of romantic feelings for her captor had even triggered her escape attempt—an attempt he could not blame her for. She was a captive. Escape attempts were expected. The fault lay with him for underestimating her cunning and allowing his emotions to cloud his judgement. Their relationship was more complicated than ever, and handling it would require greater finesse.
A transparent understanding of their dynamic was required to effectively navigate their interactions. Today was a new day, and he intended to discern the true magnitude of her feelings before its end. Perhaps he could also afford her some influence over the day's agenda; doing so would reiterate his willingness to trust her, despite last night's stumble, and it would reinforce his respect for her. By bestowing upon her a sense of autonomy during her captivity, her emotions could be anchored, the potential for rash actions diminished. Moreover, a candid conversation about last night seemed necessary, preferable to letting her continue to stew in her own turbulent thoughts. The idea initially made him tense, but it was a strategic move that brought a sense of resolution, calming the storm in his mind.
With his next steps decided, Marik closed his eyes, the rhythmic slap of water against the ornate gold and white tiles filling the room. But soon, the absence of immediate concerns allowed his thoughts to drift—and alas, they drifted to more tantalising memories of A'isha: her lips, her touch, her sighs.
For many, a first kiss was a clumsy affair, but theirs had been a symphony, each brush of his lips to hers like a masterful conductor guiding an orchestra through a timeless melody. He recalled the subtle flavours that had lingered on her lips—an exquisite blend of fruit tart and rich mock wine, underscored by an enticing hint of coffee. His fingers curled into his palms, dwelling on the inviting warmth of her thigh, her legs slightly parting beneath his touch. When his lips on her neck had been rewarded with a soft moan, the delectable sound had snapped his restraint, igniting something wild within him.
Marik pried his fingers from his palms, seeking his body wash. His body, like his mind, obeyed his command, not the other way round. He would not be ensnared by primal impulse.
Yet as he washed with a blend of spices and citrus, a vision invaded his thoughts: A'isha's slender fingers teasingly tracing his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. A breath caught in his throat. His eyes flicked down, a frustrated growl escaping him.
With a deliberate reach for the shower handle, he was poised to snuff the fire with cold. But he stilled, weighing the possibilities, the implications. He and A'isha were tethered by circumstance. Exploring the memory of their shared intimacy here, in the privacy of the shower, might prove more than mere self-indulgence. It could cleanse his mind, purge the tension coiled deep within him, preparing him for further engagements with her.
Marik increased the heat. The slow descent of his hand was intentional, a promise to himself. This was not yielding to desire; it was an exploration of an emotional connection that had become alarmingly significant.
As that exploration began, the water's caress shifted, transforming into A'isha's strong and shapely form pressed to him, the rising steam now her heady breaths on his skin. He granted himself the vision of her lips on him, her tongue teasing, her fingers knowing, while her own body reacted to his every purposeful touch, inviting more of those alluring moans, loud and unrestrained. And even in this imagined intimacy, his keen intellect continued to work, analysing the connection that fuelled these fantasies.
A'isha's wit, her resilience, her strong sense of self despite captivity commanded his attention. Her poorly timed humour. Her passion for the performing arts. Her unfiltered enthusiasm about everything from culinary tastes to artistic preferences. All of it intrigued him. Then, there was her empathy, her vulnerability, that undeniable integrity and unwavering moral compass. She was no longer a mere pawn or an attractive distraction, but a rare, mesmerising force.
Marik's breathing intensified.
But he would never be a slave to desire. He would understand it, savour it, and master it. His feelings were a landscape to be carefully charted, not a chasm into which he might fall. Even as his eyes slid to a close, as his palm braced against the shower's glass, as A'isha's name left his lips, he was in control. Always.
As A'isha lay sprawled on a bed fit for royal slumber parties, the distant hum of running water abruptly ceased. The ensuing silence hung like a heavy curtain, an overture to Marik's inevitable entrance. It felt like the universe was cueing the next act in their twisted captivity saga, a scene she wasn't ready to take part in.
Rolling onto her side, she stared at the empty space beside her. Marik's latest 'knight in tarnished armour' act, choosing the sofa over handcuffs, seemed like a bizarre consideration from Mr Kidnapper Extraordinaire. The remnants of last night clung to her thoughts—a kiss that shouldn't have felt so right, an escape attempt that went spectacularly left, and her conscience, the traitor, rebelling against using the Millennium Rod.
Flipping onto her stomach, she groaned into the pillow. Bad move. The fabric betrayed Marik's scent, a blend of exotic spices and citrus that whispered of their ill-advised intimacy. She shoved the pillow away as if that could untangle her muddled thoughts. If only it were that simple.
Her mind replayed snapshots of last night. Marik's unexpected tenderness, his soft lips writing a story she never thought she'd read, how he'd looked at her like she was the only star in his twisted universe—it was all so surreal. But this was Marik, the mind game maestro. Was his supposed affection just another card in his deck of deceptions?
Lying amidst luxury as impersonal as a hotel brochure, she found herself pondering simpler times—when her biggest foe was calculus, and dodging her aunt's dictatorship was a daily battle. Now, she was a player in a psychological thriller with The R.H., a script that would have critics debating its controversial twist on Stockholm Syndrome for years to come.
A line of light appeared beneath the bedroom door, heralding Marik's possible approach. She braced herself for the 'morning after' awkwardness, like a scene from a rom-com where the girl faces the alluring yet infuriating guy after a night of unplanned escapades. Would Marik skirt around the elephant in the room? Or would he dare to confront it? Did she even want him to?
The sound of the sofa scraping against wood preceded three soft knocks, barely audible over her racing heart. Sitting up, she instinctively ran her fingers through her bed hair. Wait, why was she preening for him? She should be plotting, not grooming. "Come in," she called out, her voice strained.
The door opened, revealing Marik in a surprisingly casual state. Clad in a white bathrobe with a golden 'L' embroidered on it, his hair was damp and tousled, with droplets tracing paths down the exposed skin of his collarbone in a way that was entirely unfair. He leaned against the door frame, the light from the adjacent room casting an ironic halo around him.
"Good morning, A'isha." His voice was disarmingly gentle, but her brain taunted her with memories of that same voice breathlessly moaning her name.
Her nails dug into the sheets. "You know, Marik, with long showers like yours, it's a wonder you have time for crime," she quipped, her sarcasm slipping out unbidden.
He smiled, a gesture that seemed out of place in their situation. "In crime, as in showers, I prefer quality over haste."
"Well, it's nice to know you put the same dedication into lathering as you do into larceny."
His smile shifted into a familiar smirk. "You have a unique talent for turning every conversation into a showcase of your sharp wit."
"I do what I can with the material given." Her gaze flitted to the closed curtains, the first hints of dawn seeping through. "So, am I being summoned from bed already?"
"Only if you're ready," he said, an unnerving consideration in his tone. "The sunrise this morning promises to be quite the spectacle. Perhaps we could enjoy it from the balcony over a drink?"
Her heart skipped. Was he trying to woo her with pretty colours, or attempting to discuss last night's drama in neutral territory? "Watching the sunrise? How very storybook of us."
"All I ask is that you refrain from any plot twists, like pushing me off the balcony."
"I make no promises. Sometimes, the moment just sweeps you off your feet—and over the railing." Like last night, for example.
Marik's smirk softened, his eyes revealing a hint of… fondness? "Shall I make you some peppermint tea?"
"Make it a mocha." She needed caffeine to navigate the day without poor choices.
As the door closed behind him, A'isha slumped back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling. A sunrise rendezvous with the crime boss she'd kissed the night before. What could possibly go wrong?
Marik stepped onto the balcony, two steaming cups in hand, his gaze immediately drawn to A'isha. She stood at the railing, her silhouette gracefully framed against the burgeoning dawn. Her attire, a jacket casually thrown over baggy sleepwear, suggested a relaxed demeanour. Yet, the rhythmic tapping of her forefingers against the metal railing betrayed the turmoil within.
Approaching with confident strides, tempered by an awareness of the unspoken tension, Marik extended one cup. "Your mocha," he announced, his voice maintaining its usual calm.
A'isha turned, her eyes lingering on the cup before meeting his. "Ah, the sweet elixir of captivity." The cup soon became the new focal point of her restless fingers.
Marik, now sipping at his own coffee, leaned beside her against the railing, absorbing the view. Catania sprawled below them, the Mediterranean Sea stretching into the horizon, reflecting the morning's nascent glow. He savoured the taste of his coffee, a subtle prelude to breaking a silence that, while comfortable to him, seemed to weigh heavily upon her. Eventually, he broke it, opening the door to a necessary conversation. "About last night…"
Her grip on the cup tightened visibly. "Which part? When you played tonsil hockey with your hostage, or when she almost turned you into a human kebab with your magic stick?" The sarcasm in her voice was sharp, but lacked genuine malice.
He exhaled, knowing the delicacy required in navigating this conversation. "The kiss. It was impulsive. I overstepped, without considering our complex situation. For that, I'm truly sorry."
Her eyes, wide with surprise, shot to his. "That's… unexpectedly self-aware," she blurted out, her fingers ceasing their tapping—a positive sign.
"Our circumstances are complex," he continued, carefully choosing his words, "but I should have been more considerate of your feelings."
Her gaze drifted back to the horizon, now ablaze in hues of orange and pink. "This is all… such a mess."
Marik noted the authenticity in her demeanour. Although a skilled actress, A'isha's confusion seemed genuine, not a façade. The boundaries between captor and captive, real emotions and situational responses, were blurred, and thus any romantic inclinations toward him, if present, would undoubtedly clash with her strong sense of self and morality. But last night, he had chosen the sofa to offer her space to think. Now, she needed time, and he would respect her need for it.
Leaning back from the railing, Marik kept his posture open, non-threatening. "A'isha, I can't presume to know what you're feeling, nor do I expect you to share it with me, but whatever it is, it's valid."
As they both watched the sky's canvas change, a comfortable silence enveloped them, occasionally punctuated by distant sounds from the awakening city. He subtly noted A'isha's gradual lean toward him, an unconscious act, yet indicative of her slowly diminishing guard.
"So, what's on today's agenda?" Her voice, tinged with curiosity, quickly reverted to her usual wit. "Shall we frolic in a field of lavender, enjoy a private opera concert, or perhaps engage in a philosophical debate on Renaissance art?"
He couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Actually, I thought you could decide."
Her eyebrows rose. "Really?"
"Yes. Whatever you'd like to do today, consider it done."
"I hear the police station offers exclusive tours."
His teasing smile mirrored her own. "Anything within reason."
"Worth a shot," she conceded with a playful shrug. "I'll put my thinking cap on."
After the welcome distraction that was her daily video call with Amara, A'isha took the reins of the day's plans with Marik. Quite the twist, considering yesterday's ordeal. His surprise apology and offer for her to play tour guide had pushed her eyebrows to her hairline. Was he being sincere, or making his next chess move? Hard to say.
In any case, before the day could really begin, she knew they had to make a crucial stop—a café. Not just for breakfast, but perhaps more importantly, to appease Marik's caffeine addiction. Then, armed with brand-new windbreakers and boots, they set off for her chosen exploit: hiking Mount Etna. Because what could be better than dragging a luxury-addicted crime boss into nature's lap?
On their drive, Marik, usually as unflappable as a penguin, was showing priceless signs of actual human discomfort. Sadly, no camera was on hand to immortalise 'Marik Unplugged', but she mentally catalogued each grimace and wary side-eye at the passing scenery.
Once on the trail, he assumed the role of 'Backpack Guy'—either a stab at chivalry or a desperate claw at control in an environment where he stuck out like a cactus in an ice rink. Every step he took was wary, his eyes flicking around with suspicion. The slopes of Mount Etna surrounded them, a world where the cool wind forever smelled like a waning campfire, and hardened lava flows and sparse shrubbery formed a rugged masterpiece. "You know, Marik, we're on a hike, not a heist. I'm pretty sure that bush isn't plotting your downfall." She tacked on another tease for good measure. "That backpack looks great on you, by the way. Really highlights your vibe of constant vigilance."
It was almost visible, the effort Marik was making to relax his shoulders and unclench his fingers. Then, he defaulted to his go-to strategy when out of his element—he turned into a walking encyclopaedia. "Did you know Catania is nicknamed 'the black city' due to its buildings being darkened by the ash from Etna's eruptions?"
"Look at you, my personal Wikipedia."
"I aim to enhance your hiking experience."
Their banter was abruptly cut short when Marik stumbled over a volcanic rock. Quick as a reflex, A'isha caught him, saving his dignity before it could kiss the dirt. "Woah there, Mr Smooth Criminal," she said, barely containing her laughter. "Is this part of the 'enhanced experience' too? If so, mission accomplished."
He shot her a look that was somewhere between irritation and amusement. "How fitting that the highlight of your hike is at my expense." As he bent to inspect his boots, making sure the sharp volcanic rock hadn't left a mark, the Millennium Rod under his belt glinted in the morning sun.
Right then, A'isha recalled another reason she'd picked Mount Etna for their hike, even if it risked stirring up some Dani-flavoured nostalgia. It was a deliciously ironic nod to Marik's fabricated meet-cute for Monday's dinner—their supposedly serendipitous encounter on this very mountain. "Hey, does that thing come with a future-seeing feature?" she joked, nodding toward the Rod. "Your story about how we met is getting a bit too real. You stumbling, me catching."
"It doesn't provide foresight." He stood back up with a relieved sigh that his boots had escaped the rock unscathed. "That ability belongs to another Millennium Item."
"Wait, there's more of those things?" As if one magic stick wasn't enough!
"Seven, to be exact." As they resumed their walk, the crunch of black volcanic rock underfoot punctuated his words. "Each with its own distinct look and abilities, all created thousands of years ago to protect the Pharaoh's kingdom."
"So, which one of these creepy antiques lets you play psychic? Oh, let me guess." She tapped her lip in faux thought. "The Millennium Crystal Ball?"
Marik's lips curled into a knowing smile. "The Millennium Necklace. No crystal balls needed."
"A necklace, huh? That does sound a bit more manageable than that giant baton you're lugging around."
"Convenience isn't its primary function, but you make a fair point."
As they navigated the rugged terrain, A'isha's mind buzzed with new curiosities, her strides keeping time with Marik's. Eventually, she settled on one of about, oh, maybe a million questions. "If the Millennium Necklace can see the future, does that mean everything's written in the stars?"
He scoffed, and it didn't take a genius to figure out it wasn't meant for her. "The owner of that item may like to think so, but as for me, I'm the author of my own fate." A predictable answer from Mr Control Freak, but hey, she couldn't blame him. The thought of your fate being pre-scripted? Definitely on the creepier side of things.
She helped him over a particularly rebellious chunk of Mount Etna, her grip firm on his hand. "So, Mr Author of Your Own Fate," she said, releasing his hand once he was back on terra firma, "is your own Millennium Item super-glued to your hip? You couldn't even ditch it for this scenic nature walk."
Marik returned her gaze with a look that was half challenge, half humoured. "Why? Already planning your next great escape?"
"Just a casual observation," she said beside him. "I'm picturing you and your precious Rod in a tender embrace on the sofa. For the record, it's a heart-warming image." Her grin fell as his stride slowed, a subtle change flickering across his face, suggesting she'd accidentally sent him down memory lane.
"The Rod represents more than power, A'isha." His voice carried a weight that hinted at deeper waters. "It symbolises the freedom I wrested from a destiny carved in stone."
She absorbed his words, the irony striking her like a misaimed Frisbee—her symbol of captivity was his beacon of freedom. But she bit back that thought, sensing a sacred undertone in his admission. Freedom, in Marik's world, was like an uncut diamond: precious, rare, and potentially cutting. And thinking back to last night, when she'd yoinked that symbol of freedom out from under his belt, she had to hand it to him—the guy had kept his cool like it was going out of style.
As they trudged on, a comfortable quiet settled in, and she couldn't help but notice Marik's initial discomfort with the terrain beginning to fade. Now, he was starting to remind her of a peacock strutting through a petting zoo. "Look at you, adapting to Mother Nature like a modern-day Indiana Jones."
Marik chuckled, his eyes shifting to her with a look so warm it could've melted glaciers. "I might be adapting to the wilderness," he started, a mischievous smile tugging at his mouth, "but it's clear who the real force of nature is here." His eyes stuck to her like they were super-glued—a mix of soft and way too familiar. Suddenly, she was hit by an unsolicited flashback of their kiss: the heat, the desperation, the startling sense of rightness—
She rolled her eyes, battling the traitorous blush that threatened to hijack her cheeks. "Looks like someone's gunning for top marks in Outdoor Flattery 101."
His expression, all warm and tender, flickered out as if someone had flipped a switch. "Lunch?" he suggested from nowhere, nodding toward a rock formation that looked suspiciously like it had been teleported from a nature postcard.
"Brilliant idea." Food, forever the MVP of distractions. They sidestepped off the beaten path, leaving their metaphorical baggage on the hiking trail. For now, there was a hearty sandwich in Marik's backpack with her name on it.
Inside a small honey shop, its air thick with the scent of beeswax, Marik felt like an exotic bird caged in an all too mundane world. The store's cramped quarters and excessive use of dark, rustic woods clashed with his usual taste for open, light and opulent spaces. But A'isha had wished to visit, and he was determined to accommodate her choice.
A sudden, light touch on his hand pulled him from his thoughts. Her fingers didn't just brush against his; they lingered, stirring a warmth at odds with the shop's chill. "Feeling trapped in the hive?" His gaze fell on her face, noting the playful tilt of her lips. "We can buzz off if you're getting antsy."
He snorted in amusement, but considered her offer. The shop's confined space was beginning to press down on him, but her presence, her light-hearted jest, offered a reprieve. She wanted to be here. He would endure.
"Let's stay," he replied, and carefully laced his fingers with hers, their palms pressing together. He watched her closely for any sign of objection, but instead, her face brightened, a response that kindled a thrill within him; one that was becoming increasingly common in her presence.
They explored hand in hand, eventually stopping before a shelf labelled "Apiario Arcade", a blend of Italian and English. Arrayed before them were jars of honey in a kaleidoscope of hues.
A'isha's fingers slipped from his, her eyes alight. "Let's play a game. We'll taste test and decide which flavour embodies the other person."
On their hike, she'd oscillated between moments of unguarded sincerity and her trademark quips, as if wading into deeper waters only to retreat to the safety of the shore. Which side would emerge in this game? "You know I enjoy a challenge. Let's begin." He handed her a tasting stick and selected the first jar of the game. "Honey with Chilli? An intriguing blend."
She leaned in, her strawberry-scented shampoo momentarily overpowering the beeswax. Strawberry and honey—now that was a blend he could indulge in.
"Marik, remember that chilli sorbet? If this is anything like it, we're in for a treat."
"Let's find out." They both sampled the fiery honey, and after a moment's contemplation, he shared his thoughts. "Spicy, but smooth."
A'isha sucked the stick in a way that was admittedly quite endearing. "Yeah, like a tango on the tongue."
As their exploration of honey continued, each flavour sparked exchanges rich with insight and gentle ribbing. As with last night's eight-course meal, he approached the task with the precision of a connoisseur, while her reactions were colourful and unfiltered.
Finally, she reached for the Dark Forest Honey. "This is you," she announced, presenting the jar with a fanciful flourish of her hand. "Complex, mysterious, an unexpected depth of sweetness. Just when you think you understand it, another layer shows itself."
He looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. It seemed her sincere side had been the one to emerge. "Quite the analysis," he said, and selected a jar of Spiced Honey. "And for you, this one. The honey is lively, the cinnamon adds warmth, and the ginger? An unexpected, but delightful bite." He admired the jar's floral patterns, his thumb brushing over the glass. "And this design, it's… beautiful."
She dipped her head, a stray curl falling across her face. "Sweet with a kick, huh? I suppose I can live with that."
After scaling what felt like their own personal Everest (with a honey-flavoured detour), A'isha and Marik found themselves pleasantly tired, their muscles singing anthems of glorious fatigue.
As evening rolled in, twilight draped Catania's Parco Maestranze in a moody cloak of blues and purples, transforming the park into a stage for their impromptu pizza party. They'd turned a quiet bench into their personal dinner theatre, featuring a vegetarian pizza that was half Eden, half crime scene, depending on your stance on pineapple. The full moon peered through the thickening clouds, tiptoeing in and out of view.
A'isha peeled a slice from their pizza's controversial half and thrust it in the air. "Behold, the epitome of culinary controversy!"
Marik chuckled. "The quickest way to offend any self-respecting pizzaiolo."
"Coming from you? I'll wear that as a badge of honour."
They both ate their side of the pizza in a laid-back silence, serenaded by rustling leaves and the lull of the city beyond the park. Nearby, a tree stood tall, its branches swaying in the heightening breeze as if trying to catch the attention of the stars.
Post-pizza, she nodded at the barky behemoth. "Ever climbed one?"
"I can't say I have. My childhood diversions were less… arboreal."
A pang of sympathy fluttered in A'isha's chest, her mind briefly flickering to his tales of a youth spent more in shadows than sunlight. She mustered a smile. "Change of plans, then. We're postponing gelato for a crash course in tree climbing. You up for it?"
Marik's bemused expression gave way to a smile as he stood. "After you, Professor Dahar."
They discarded the pizza box and approached the tree. "Now, I know this is a shocker, but it's all about strategic hand and foot placement. Follow my lead."
As they began their arboreal ascent, Marik's voice floated up to her. "I may be a few years past the ideal tree-climbing demographic."
She smirked down at him. "'A few years' is quite the understatement, isn't it?"
"Curious, are we?"
Reaching for another branch, A'isha pondered the age mystery. Yes. Yes, she was curious. But what if he was so old it made his birthday candles a fire hazard?
Settling on a robust branch, she patted the spot next to her. Marik joined, his face a study in silent triumph over his first tree climb. It was cute, in a way. But only just.
As the evening air hummed around them, A'isha mulled over their day. Marik's unexpected candour—from apologies on balconies to revelations about magical antiques and calling her a 'force of nature' like it wasn't some cheesy pick up line. Was he thawing, or was this a special edition of the Marik Show? There was one way to find out. She could ask him something personal and gauge his response. Would he answer like a captor? Or an… acquaintance? And as it turned out, a certain personal question had already flitted through their conversation.
"So, about that 'few years' comment." Her tone was light, but her pulse quickened. "How many eons are we talking here?"
His attention drifted away, lost in the kaleidoscope of city lights peeking through the swaying leaves. She chewed her lip as the silence stretched on. Was that too personal? Had she overstepped? But then, his focus snapped back to her, his response tossed out like a grenade. "Sixteen. Seventeen come Monday."
Her eyebrows did a high jump. "Sixteen? As in, sweet sixteen? Just a hop, skip and a birthday cake from my ancient seventeen?" She couldn't believe it. Was he serious, or was this just a low point in his deception career? Surely, he couldn't expect her to swallow that.
"I'm exactly two months and twenty days your junior." It seemed he'd given thought to their age gap.
Her mind raced, trying to align this with memories of Uncle Ahad cursing The R.H. "But how? You've been my uncle's personal headache since I was a tween."
"A trusted older figure played my part," he explained. "A necessary ruse until my own stature commanded respect." In layman's terms, until puberty decided he was a bass and not a soprano.
A'isha scrutinised him, her brain furiously trying to recalibrate the Marik algorithm. She'd pegged him as twenty-something, or maybe thirty-something with impeccable genes. But now, looking past the age prejudice, she noticed his unlined skin, the lingering boyishness in his features. It hit her like a cold shower. He was sixteen, not some seasoned veteran of life. A teenager, albeit one who carried himself with an air far removed from the immaturity of high school corridors. The boys at her school could barely organise a game of football, and here was Marik, swiping people like library books and playing catch-me-if-you-can with the law. And this epiphany? It was like unwittingly unlocking a door she'd been dead-bolting with all her might.
Marik's voice was a soft stroke against her thoughts. "You're unusually quiet."
She sucked in a breath. "I'm just picturing you in my math class, sketching plans for world domination between algebra equations. Kind of kills the whole sinister vibe, don't you think?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Does my age disappoint you?"
"No, it's just… I thought I was dealing with Mr Grown-Up Evil Overlord, but it turns out you're still in the throes of teen angst."
He tilted his head slightly, those eyes dissecting her with a precision that was almost surgical. "Does that change anything for you?"
A'isha's forehead creased. Change what, exactly? He was still Marik, the architect of her not-so-funhouse life. The age revelation was like discovering your kidnapper played with LEGO. It was odd, maybe softened the edges of the nightmare, but the nightmare was still very real. And yet, her heart seemed to have its own ideas, tap-dancing to a rhythm set by his every probing word. She met his gaze again, her tongue suddenly on strike.
His presence was tangible—warmth cascading off him, his scent a dance partner to the night breeze, his silhouette cutting a figure that was equal parts menacing and magnetic. Then, as if on cue, a flash of light threw his face into sharp relief. Her breath hitched. Was that—
Thunder rumbled, its deep growl vibrating through A'isha's chest. Her grip tightened around the branch.
Marik glanced skyward, his voice steady over the rustle of agitated leaves. "The forecast predicted thunderstorms, but not for a few more hours." His eyes flicked to her, then her white-knuckled grip. "It seems we should make a strategic retreat. Assuming our esteemed captain of the day has no objections?"
"Gelato can take a rain check. Literally."
As the last one up, Marik led their descent—with surprising grace for a newbie, almost like a cat on a midnight prowl. A'isha, on the other hand, practically tumbled after him, her descent less poetry, more speed. City lights jeered through the tree's shaking canopy, the safety of their hotel mocking her from just beyond the park.
Time to cut corners. She leapt from the tree, landing with a hard thud just as Marik touched down. "Which way to our storm shelter?"
Marik's hand enveloped hers, his grip firm but gentle. "This way," he said, leading them into a brisk jog. The wind joined in, howling through the trees, whipping her hair into a chaotic halo.
Another thunderclap, closer this time.
"Hear that? Mother Nature's having a go at death metal."
Their pace quickened, the sound of their boots against the pavement echoing like a pursuit. A'isha's heart pounded. She glanced back. Another lightning strike, and for a moment, a snapshot from her worst memories—rain, shadows, the glint of a blade.
She forced her gaze forward. "Think we can outrun Zeus' tantrum? Or should we start drafting apologies?"
His voice cut through the storm. "Negotiations are my forté. I'll handle it."
Lightning flashed again. Her heart skipped. She glanced back, searching the shadows for figures before echoing thunder almost made her trip. She pumped her legs harder. Felt weirdly reassured that Marik was beside her. Looked forward.
The hotel's familiar Christmas lights beckoned through the trees.
"Not far now," Marik urged, squeezing her hand.
She squeezed back. Clung to his grip. Warm. Safe.
Another flash of lightning.
Warm. Safe.
Thunder shook the world.
She looked back, and in the lightning's glare, they were chasing her, closer, closer—
"Look out!" Marik's hand yanked her back just as a car whooshed by, its horn a furious scream over the wind.
A'isha stood frozen. The car disappeared into the night, its tail lights fading like dying embers. Her heart hammered, her breath caught in a throat that suddenly felt too tight. The car. It had been so close. Too close.
Marik's voice sounded far away. "A'isha, are you alright?" His face floated into her view, smudged at the edges.
She tried to nod, to signal she was fine, but the motion felt disjointed, mechanical. Her mind was stuck, replaying the near miss. The car horn. The speeding metal. Death, only a step away.
Marik's hand, warm and steady, still gripped hers. "Let's get you inside," he urged gently.
The journey back felt surreal. Streets, lights, and the first droplets of rain melded into a blurred canvas. Marik's guiding hand was the only thing real, grounding her as they moved through the hotel lobby and into the private elevator. He might've spoken occasionally, but the words slipped past her like water through fingers.
When the elevator door opened again, the rain outside crescendoed, pounding against the windows with merciless ferocity. Memories surged, unbidden. That night—dark, wet, terror. The Rare Hunters, their drenched cloaks. Gavin, looming over her, his weight a prison.
Panic rose, a tidal wave. The suite was too open, too vast. She needed somewhere small. The bathroom.
She ran, the sound of her name a distant echo. The door slammed shut behind her. But even here, the rain was loud, relentless, a bombardment against her senses. The window revealed a world hazed by water, just like that night.
Her breathing turned ragged, shallow. Trapped in the storm outside, the storm within. The bathroom, her refuge, now a cell.
As lightning cleaved through the sky, its flash illuminating the room for a fleeting second, A'isha's world blurred. The stark light bridged time, and suddenly, she was back there, on that rain-drenched street, the cold gnawing into her bones. The thunder morphed into the Rare Hunters' cruel laughter, their figures mere shadows under hoods and rain. Pinned to the ground, the cold asphalt pressing into her back, a blade at her neck, hands rifling through her belongings. Rain mixed with tears on her face, and Gavin's vile words filled the air: "Let's find somewhere nice and dry for her to warm us up—"
Then, there were hands on her shoulders. Her body jolted at the contact. But it wasn't Gavin. It was Marik, his hands trickling warmth through the cold of her fear. "A'isha, listen to me."
But she couldn't listen, couldn't breathe. She was drowning. "Gavin, he tried to—to—" Her voice broke, a sob tearing through her words.
"I know, A'isha. I know. But he didn't. You got away. And he's not here. You'll never see him again, I promise." His gaze held hers—lavender, soft and calming. "A'isha, breathe with me," he persisted, and started to count. Breathing exercises. He was guiding her through breathing exercises. Her chest heaved as she struggled to draw breath. "Focus on my voice. Breathe with me," he coaxed, his tone soothing, unwavering. She clung to his jacket, anchoring herself to the sound of his voice.
"In for four seconds. Hold it. Good. Now breathe out. Keep going. Let's do it again, okay?"
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. In, hold, out. She followed his rhythm, each breath a lifeline pulling her back from the edge.
Gradually, the fog of panic began to lift, her breathing slowing, her heart rate steadying. The past receded, the present coming into focus—the bathroom, the rain, Marik. He was right there, kneeling in front of her, his hands a comforting weight on her shoulders.
She was here. Safe. With him. Not on that street. Not under Gavin's shadow.
She was safe.
A'isha's breathing finally steadied, a semblance of normalcy returning as she looked up into Marik's eyes. They were softer now, a stark contrast to the usual calculative glint she'd become accustomed to. It was as if, in this small tiled sanctuary, they'd inadvertently stumbled into a parallel universe where he wasn't her captor, and she wasn't his captive. Just two people, sharing a moment of raw humanity.
Breaking the spell, she quirked an eyebrow, the corners of her lips inching up. "If I knew all it took to get you on your knees was a little hyperventilation, I would've tried it sooner."
Marik's lips twitched into a familiar smirk. "If you recall, I already got on my knees when I proposed our fictional engagement."
"Technically, you were on one knee. Details, Marik, details."
"Now, now, this isn't a competition."
"Only because you're losing."
Despite the chaos, there was a comfort in their banter, like finding a warm patch of sunlight in a cold room.
Marik's expression softened. "It's good to see you back to your witty self."
A'isha smiled, and in a moment that felt more like strength than weakness, she leaned into him, seeking the comfort of his embrace. His arms wrapped around her, more protective than possessive, a cocoon of warmth and cologne she hadn't realised she needed so deeply.
"So, this is how the infamous R.H. does cuddles? I'll give it a solid nine out of ten. Always room for improvement."
"Only a nine?" he feigned offence. "I'll have you know, I strive for excellence in all areas."
She couldn't hold back a giggle. "Well, keep striving, Marik. You might hit ten someday."
The moment stretched, filled with a quiet intimacy that felt as delicate as a soap bubble, ready to burst at any moment. Then, he did something unexpected. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Her heart did a somersault, and she wondered if this was just a scene in a very bizarre dream. The gesture was a simple act, but it tugged at something deep inside her.
Pulling back slightly, she looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. His gaze flickered to her lips, and for a moment, she wondered if he would dare to repeat the previous night's kiss. But he made no move to close the distance. Instead, he smiled, his thumb gently wiping away tears she hadn't noticed. "You're stronger than you realise, A'isha. Even in moments like this."
Her eyes welled up at his words. This was a side of him she hadn't seen before tonight, or rather, hadn't wanted to see and believe. "How are you so… not awful?" she whispered, the words slipping out before she could catch them.
"Because you make me want to be more than The R.H."
She burrowed deeper into his arms, a new cascade of tears betraying the confusion and clarity at odds within her. But here, in his arms, the world with its labels and roles seemed to melt away, leaving only his embrace and the steady beat of his heart.
As the edges of sleep began to soften her consciousness, she felt herself being scooped up off the floor. There was a moment of weightlessness, a fleeting sense of being untethered from the chaos of the world, before the softness of a bed welcomed her back to reality. Footsteps retreated, pulling at her heartstrings. She stretched out a hand. "Stay?"
The footsteps halted. A pause hung in the air, thick with hesitation and the sound of rain-battered windows. Peeking through her eyelids, she saw him, a silhouette at the doorway, his posture a debate in motion. Would he choose the sofa's lonely territory? But no, he shed his windbreaker, tossed his shoes aside, and in the humble attire of a tank top and pants, he set down the Rod and claimed the space beside her.
A wave of relief washed over her as she nestled into him once more. "Is this okay?"
His arm curled around her, warm and reassuring. "It's more than okay," he whispered back, and a satisfied hum slipped from her lips as his fingers softly played with her hair. "Sleep well, A'isha."
Her lips quirked up. "Sleep abysmally, asshole."
His chest vibrated with a low, sleepy chuckle.
In the safety of Marik's embrace, A'isha conceded to a truth she'd been sidestepping—her feelings for him were confusing, exciting, real.
And maybe that wasn't the worst thing in the world.
Fun fact: I wrote the first scene while playing "Pony" by Ginuwine on repeat. It just felt right. Also, just to let you all know, I'm aware there was a delay between this update and the last - I wanted to make sure this chapter through to chapter sixteen were entirely written and flowed nicely together before I continued posting. Anywho, reviews are always welcomed and super appreciated 😃